


Torn and Reborn

by thefangirlingdead



Series: Friend, Love, Freefall [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel Lives (Supernatural), Coda, Dean Winchester Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Healing, Heart-to-Heart, Introspection, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Season/Series Finale, The Lord of the Rings References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27871401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefangirlingdead/pseuds/thefangirlingdead
Summary: Somewhere outside of Canton, Ohio, in a creepy old abandoned barn, in the middle of the night, Dean Winchester takes a step to the right. It’s just one step, but it makes all the difference in the world.Dean lives to fight another day, talks to Sam about everything and eventually gets the reunion with Castiel that they both deserve.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Friend, Love, Freefall [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048201
Comments: 88
Kudos: 719





	Torn and Reborn

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. Here we are, folks. It has been a few years since I regularly watched Supernatural, but like everyone else, 15X18 brought me back and 15X20 made me super angry. Go figure. 
> 
> Before now, I’ve only written one very small Destiel drabble that isn’t even on this site because it’s not all that great, but I couldn’t just let that awful ending be it. Dean deserves to live, Sam and Eileen deserve to be together, and most of all, we deserve to get Cas back. So that’s what this massive, 13k word monster is all about. They all need their happy ending. 
> 
> Real talk, though. I just needed a space to a) explore Dean’s headspace and what things would have been like if he had to live without Castiel b) let him talk to Sam about everything and c) give him and Cas the reunion they deserved. (Also, there’s some Lord of the Rings references thrown in there because every time I think of good endings, I think of LOTR.)
> 
> Anyway. Be gentle, since it’s kind of my first time really writing these characters. Enjoy.

_Woke up this morning, light poured in, you're with me  
I thought I'd be better off alone  
Now, my soul has been torn and reborn, started breathing _

_What have I done?  
What have I done? _

_I never thought I needed saving, I was right where I should be  
Good god, I know it's dangerous, but it's you that I need  
I'm in love this time, I'm in love this time _

\- "[What Have I Done"](https://open.spotify.com/track/66ZjlEmFsp0Iym05kzUSOH?si=uFbLZRkzQ2SkPtz9LvnHCw) \- Dermot Kennedy

* * *

Somewhere outside of Canton, Ohio, in a creepy old abandoned barn, in the middle of the night, Dean Winchester takes a step to the right. It’s just one step, but it makes all the difference in the world. He doesn’t even think about it, really, as he grapples with the vampire wearing the idiotic clown mask. He just… takes one step to the right, feels something slash roughly against his left side, and he keeps on fighting. In the heat of the moment, in the middle of the fight, with adrenaline coursing through his body, reminding him that _he’s still very much alive_ , Dean doesn’t even stop to think about it. 

It’s just a step to the right. No big deal. 

Minutes later, when the bodies are cooling on the ground around them and Sam is beginning to plan their next move - because he’s always one step ahead and _they need to find the kids -_ Dean assesses his _own_ damages and finds -

“Fucking rebar,” he mutters under his breath as he follows his little brother out of the dusty, decrepit old barn and into the cool night air. “I almost got ganked by _rebar,_ Sam - ripped a perfectly good jacket too, and _ah-”_ he winces as his fingers graze his side through the hole in his t-shirt, noting that the fabric is damp, sticky with blood and stuck to his skin. “Got me pretty good, too. This is gonna hurt like a bitch in the morning.”

Sam just snorts at him. Dean can’t see his face, but he’d bet twenty bucks that he’s rolling his eyes right now. “Dude, don’t tell me you’re already getting rusty. It’s only been a few weeks.”

“I’m not rus-” Dean begins to interject, then stops himself, _“Shit,_ do you think I should worry about tetanus? I’m getting old, man. Imagine if I died from tetanus.”

“Well, I’d hazard to guess that dad wasn’t too keen on keeping up with our boosters,” Sam retorts with a fond shake of his head, “Can’t remember the last time he actually took one of us to a _real_ doctor.”

Dean huffs out a laugh himself as he attempts to imagine John as a doting, loving father, making sure that their kids are up to date on their vaccinations. _What a joke._ Maybe he _should_ pop by an urgent care in the morning, _just in case._

Less than a week later, the _rebar_ incident is all but a distant memory, resulting in only a gnarly scab, no stitches (although he probably could have used ‘em), a torn jacket and ruined t-shirt. Dean wants to be angry about it, but as he sits in his bedroom just a few days after the incident - after returning those two young, wide-eyed boys to their traumatized mother and making the long drive back home - he actually can’t help but feel a little bit grateful. _Grateful_ because deep down, he knows that it could have been a lot worse, because it had only been two weeks since the last apocalypse (how many is that, now?) and although he denied Sam’s joking accusation, he could already feel himself getting rusty. He feels _grateful_ because going on a typical, run of the mill monster hunt made him feel the rush of being _alive_ , made him feel _normal_ for the first time -

 _Well,_ for the first time since they lost Cas.

For a moment, as he fought with some shitty vampires in a dusty, worn-down barn in the middle of nowhere, Dean felt like he was in _control_ for the first time in a long time. And _sure,_ one could attribute that to the fact that he _is_ in control for the first time in... well, _ever,_ now that Chuck isn’t writing their story anymore, but more so, Dean felt in control that night because he’s good at _saving people_ and _hunting things_ . It didn’t have to do with gods and angels and eldritch horrors and cosmic entities that he still doesn’t fully understand. It was a run of the mill _hunt,_ and he can control that.

He _couldn’t,_ however, control what happened to Cas, and even now, nearly a month removed from that fateful day, it’s still eating Dean up inside. It’s eating him up because after everything Castiel ever did for him - all the times he saved Dean’s ass or brought him back from Hell or Purgatory or the brink of destruction, all the times he offered a shoulder to lean on or an open mind or a listening ear - Dean couldn’t be there for him when he needed him the most. 

Sure, rationally, Dean knows that there’s nothing he could have done to stop it. Cas had made up his mind long before he made his sacrifice and Dean had no way of knowing what he was going to do (or _say,_ but that’s a different meltdown entirely), but that doesn’t stop him from feeling guilty, from feeling like it was just one more thing that he couldn’t control, one more thing that Chuck held over his head, that he had written into his story before Dean was even old enough to understand what life had in store for him. 

So after that routine hunt, which ended with a bloody t-shirt, a soon to be scar and most importantly, two very _alive_ little boys, Dean tells himself that he’s grateful. He’s _grateful_ that he’ll live to hunt another day, that he’ll live to _retire_ one day, if that’s really what he wants. 

He’s grateful, because deep down, he knows that this… _this_ is the life that Castiel wanted for him. 

So, even though it doesn’t feel much easier, no matter how much time passes, Dean makes the decision after that routine hunt, to start living for himself. Not for a father that he’d never please or a legacy that he’d never live up to or a destiny that a false God wanted him to fulfill, but for himself and the kind of person that Castiel thought that he _could_ be. The kind of person Castiel saw.

The kind of person that Castiel _loved._

Love is a… _complicated_ feeling, for Dean. Love can take on many forms, and he’s felt damn near every one of them throughout his life, for better or worse. Love for a family that was ripped away from him all too soon. Love for a little brother that deserved the world and so much more because despite everything, he was just so inherently _good._ _Love_ for countless friends and found family who all taught him a little bit more about himself and his own capacity for love over the years. And _love…_ love for a best friend that saved him when he needed it most, both physically and spiritually. Dean loved Castiel as a brother as they fought side by side in a losing battle together, and then, so slowly and subtly that he didn’t even notice it at first, Dean began to love Cas in other ways, too. 

He loved the way that Cas never seemed to lose his faith in humanity, no matter how many times it was tested. He loved the hope that Cas instilled in others, the way that he wore his heart on his sleeve and always said what he was thinking or feeling because he never _knew_ anything else. He loved his willingness to learn, to grow, to adapt and change. He loved the way the crows feet around his eyes would crinkle when he was concentrating or laughing or smiling, and the way that he could say a thousand words with just one look. 

He loved Castiel, and ever since he lost him, nothing has felt the same. Nothing will ever _be_ the same.

But Dean is never one to face his feelings and fears and heartache head-on, so he’s grateful for the sense of normalcy that a hunt gives him, grateful for the routine that getting up early every morning to care for Miracle or work alongside Sam provides him. Although he wants nothing more than to just _give up_ at times - because what world was worth fighting for if someone as _good_ as Cas didn’t get to live to see it? - Dean presses onward. He presses onward because he knows that it’s what Cas (and Sam and Bobby and every other person who ever _loved_ him in any capacity) would want. So if not for himself, then for them.

And for two whole years, it works. 

For two years, Dean gets up every morning, feeds the dog, eats a quick breakfast, and… well, he _lives._

After a few months, he lands a mechanic job at a local garage owned by an older man who kind of reminds him of Bobby in some sweet, quirky ways, and he’s _almost_ as good at that as he is at hunting, and it feels… well, it feels good. It feels good to have a routine, a reason for getting up in the morning, a place that he’s needed and people who depend on him, even if it’s for his years of experience fixing up the Impala instead of the creative ways to burn, bury or hide a body, or trap a demon, or hunt down a random assortment of monsters. 

_Sometimes,_ when things got really hard, when he was still young and it seemed like it was all too much (which is comical now, in the grand scheme of things), Dean would daydream about what it would be like to have a normal life. A nine to five. A place to call home and a comfortable bed and a warm meal and _maybe_ , if he was really lucky, a family waiting for him. Back before shit went to hell and he realized that a normal life was nothing more than just a pipe dream, Dean imagined that he’d make a pretty okay mechanic, or bartender, or _hell,_ maybe he could even pull a Sammy and go back to school so he could help people in _other_ ways that mattered, but he was never naive enough to think it would ever pan out. Even when he was younger, before hell and heaven and the weight of the world fell on his shoulders, he knew that his fate was sealed before he even had a chance to forge his own path. He’d probably die young - a freak accident on a hunting trip gone wrong, or painfully outnumbered, guns blazing. 

Never once did he ever imagine that he’d actually make it out alive on the other end, with a shot of normalcy, whatever that may mean.

And it doesn’t feel right. It feels as if God or Gabriel or Lucifer is going to pop out at any minute and scream _sike_ , but it never happens. And before he knows it, a month, then six months, then a year, then _two_ _years_ have passed, and Dean has begun to actually make a _life_ for himself - a life that still includes the occasional hunt on the weekend, and breakfast with Sam in the morning before Sam begins checking in with his network of hunters that he has slowly begun collecting, and even late night movies in the bunker because they they may be taking a break but they haven’t fully _retired_ \- and he feels… _grateful._

He feels grateful that he somehow came out the other end seemingly unscathed. He feels grateful that he still has his brother, still has a roof over his head, still has a chance to start over, but -

But with every day, Dean still wonders what it would be like if Cas was there to share it with them. _With him._

Would Castiel have welcomed a normal, mundane life with open arms? He _did_ always somehow manage to see the beauty in even the simplest things that most humans take for granted. He _was_ always amazed at humanity’s ability to overcome and adapt and _flourish,_ even under the most challenging circumstances. Would he be proud of Dean for letting his past go? Would he be happy that he was trying to move on? Would he admire Dean’s courage to trudge forward despite the fact that he still finds it hard to believe that things could ever go back to normal after so much _bad_ has happened? 

Would he be disappointed to know that Dean still can’t stop himself from looking for clues or spells or tricks or loopholes to bring him back? Would he be heartbroken to know that Dean still prays to him, even though he knows that the desperate words will go unanswered? Would he understand? Would he forgive Dean for not saying those three little words back when he was still around? Would he feel relieved to know that Dean still mutters them to himself every night before bed, with the hope that maybe, Castiel is out there somewhere and can hear him? 

Occasionally, late at night, when everything seems hopeless and it all becomes too much, Dean considers laying it all out there, telling Sam, telling _anyone_ about the pain and regret that he harbors.

But he doesn’t. Dean does what he does best, and he keeps those thoughts and feelings locked away behind a heavy door, despite Sam and Eileen’s best efforts to wring it out of him. And he does it for two. long. years.

Until, just like the flip of a switch, just when he expects it least, something _changes._

* * *

Two years after the end of the world, after Castiel is taken and they kill God and Dean recieves a gnarly scar from a stupid piece of rebar in a decrepit old barn in the middle of nowhere, Dean finds himself nursing a beer after a long day at work, feet kicked up, watching The Lord of the Rings with Sam on a random Thursday night, and things feel… well, they feel normal. 

Dean’s new normal consists of long days at the garage, grease-stained jeans and fresh calluses on his hands from working on vehicles, rather than digging shallow graves or hand to hand combat or fighting for his life. _Normal_ means congratulating Sam with his favorite takeout and a beer when he makes the decision to start taking online classes part-time, entertaining Eileen whenever she stops by for a long weekend or a much needed vacation, and even putting up a hunter or two as they come through town and need a place to crash. It means taking walks with Miracle and attempting small talk with his co-workers and grocery shopping and learning how to bake because _weekends are boring_ when he’s not out hunting or driving cross country, but he supposes that he’d prefer _boring_ over dying at the hands of a demon or hell hounds or vampires or even a rusty piece of rebar sticking out of a barn wall. 

And for the most part, it feels good. It feels good to relax after a hard day’s work, sharing comfortable silence with Sam as they watch a movie that they’ve both seen countless times. It feels good not to worry about what’s waiting for them around the next corner, what’s lurking in the shadows, what might shatter their delicate peace. 

It feels _good_ , even if Dean doesn’t quite have everything he wants, even if he still finds himself skimming through old books late at night when he can’t get Cas off his mind and the guilt becomes too much. 

Well, it feels good until it doesn’t. Until Dean is four beers deep and almost three hours into The Two Towers and Samwise Gamgee is giving an emotional speech to Frodo while the world falls apart around them -

_“Sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad happened?”_

\- and he abruptly rises from the sofa, grumbling something about needing another beer as Sam watches him with a concerned look on his face. 

It’s stupid, really. That speech, the one that’s still playing in the background, even as Dean reaches into the refrigerator for another beer, trying to make as much noise as possible so he doesn’t have to hear it, always hits hard, but even more so, now. Those familiar words -

_“Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back only they didn’t. Because they were holding on to something.”_

Those words twist in his stomach like a knife now, because _Dean has lived them._ Because Dean knows that they ring true (there _is_ some good in the world, and it’s absolutely worth fighting for) but it’s bittersweet, because he _has_ his happily ever after, a normal life after the darkness has passed, but Castiel, the one person who gave him hope to hold onto, who believed in him when he shouldn’t have and loved him despite all of his flaws, isn’t here to share it with him. With them. 

Sam, for all the ways that he still drives Dean insane sometimes because that’s what little brothers do, doesn’t push the issue. When Dean finally takes a seat next to him on the sofa again, just as the movie is coming to a close, he only asks him once -

_“You wanna talk about it?”_

And when Dean just shrugs and mutters, “Nothing to talk about,” Sam drops the subject. 

It’s funny, really. One would assume that at forty-three years old, Dean would have his shit figured out, that he’d be able to face these ugly emotions head-on or at the very least _talk about them_ with his brother, but two years removed from killing God and gaining his freedom and losing Castiel, and sometimes Dean feels the same way he did when he was an emotionally stunted young man who would rather do anything than talk about his feelings. Hell, he’d _still_ rather do anything than talk about his feelings. 

_But -_

But, two years is a long time to hold it all in, and deep down, Dean is sick of stewing in it, sick of staying up late researching on his own, quietly praying to Castiel or Jack for a breakthrough and putting on a brave face for Sammy because his little brother doesn’t need to know how much it’s eating him up inside. He’s sick of pretending that he doesn’t miss Cas with every day that passes. 

So twenty minutes later, as they’re both standing at the sink, Sam washing dirty dishes and Dean drying them (and _god,_ it’s so fucking mundane, how did he end up here?) it all finally just spills out. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the fact that the speech at the end of The Lord of the Rings reminds him too much of the shit that Castiel would always tell him _(“good things do happen, Dean”)_ or _maybe_ it finally overflows after two years of compartmentalizing and pretending that he’s okay, but whatever it is, it has Dean taking a deep breath and admitting out loud before he can stop himself:

_“He told me that he loved me, you know.”_

And _okay,_ maybe that’s not exactly what he meant to say, but the words are out there and _man,_ if he’s gonna do it, he might as well go all out, right?

Sam’s movements falter, then freeze, but the water keeps running. For a moment, the constant static of the faucet is the only sound in the room, too loud in Dean’s ears, until Sam finally cuts through it with a one-worded question. 

“Cas?”

 _Of course._ Of course Sam knows. Dean just blurted out the most obscure, random statement - they hadn’t even been discussing Castiel, they weren’t even talking _at all_ \- yet he just _knows._ Was it really that obvious?

At least he doesn’t have to try to explain himself. The perks of having a genius little brother. 

Dean swallows, his throat suddenly feeling extremely tight when he mutters, _“Yeah.”_

At _that,_ Sam finally reaches forward to turn off the water. The room falls silent as Sam clearly formulates his next words, his next question, and for a moment, Dean regrets saying _anything at all._ He avoided this subject for _two freaking years._ What made _right now_ so special? 

“When?” Sam finally asks, and _wow,_ ain't that a question?

Dean clears his throat. “We uh - we should probably sit down.” 

Sam nods wordlessly, letting Dean lead the way back to the table, and _wow,_ he’s really going through with this, isn’t he?

But bless his heart, Sam doesn’t push him to speak before he’s ready. He doesn’t get impatient when Dean takes a few long moments to begin to explain. He just… _waits._

So, after what feels like an eternity of trying to figure out the right way to tell this story, the right way to recite the words that have been trapped in the back of his throat for _two fucking years,_ Dean finally begins to tell Sam everything. Or at least, the _beginning_ of everything. Baby steps.

“Cas -” Dean starts, then stops, the angel’s name getting caught in his throat, because he’s only used to saying it like a curse or a prayer in the confines of his bedroom (or the shower or alone in the car on late drives home, or sitting on the side of the road, his knuckles digging into his eyes). “He uh - he had a deal with The Empty.” 

Dean pauses, waiting for Sam to pipe up - _“A deal? What do you mean he had a deal, Dean?”_ \- but to his surprise, his brother doesn’t say anything. Two years will do a lot to change a person, and Dean should know by now that Sam has gained much more patience for his brother’s emotionally stunted form of communication, but the silence still comes as a surprise. 

Dean swallows, then trudges onward. “It uh - it allowed him to live until he felt a moment of true happiness, then it would take him,” he explains to the best of his ability, “Shit was - well, shit was hitting the fan, and Cas must have decided that it was the only way that he could save me, so he just…”

_He let himself be happy. He told me he loved me._

Dean can’t quite get the words out, but blessedly, it appears that Sam understands, if the look of utter devastation on his face says anything. 

_“Dean -”_

“I’m not looking for pity,” Dean cuts him off before he can say anything, “And I don’t want you to tell me that this wasn’t my fault. I just - you asked if I wanted to talk about it. So I am.”

Dean doesn’t want to look at Sam. He doesn’t want to see the sad look on his face or the emotion in his eyes that says what words can’t, but Dean has been holding this in for so long, blaming himself for so long, that he can’t help it. And yeah, maybe he’s predictable, or maybe Dean just knows him well enough, but when he looks up, his brother is looking at him like he wants to hug him or cry or yell or apologize and -

And that’s enough to nearly break him. Dean feels the agony and grief and guilt seizing up in his chest just as it had two years ago when Sam first asked him what happened and he _lied -_ he lied because he couldn’t bring himself to admit that he was the reason that Cas was gone, that he couldn’t stop it. 

(That he wasn’t strong enough to say the words back when he had the chance. That he didn’t act on it sooner, when they had more time, when it was so painfully obvious that they’d been dancing around one another for years, afraid to take the plunge.)

But how could he have known? After all of that time, how could Dean have known that Castiel was even capable of seeing him in the same light, of loving the way that Dean had grown to love him over the years? After all, how could someone as _good_ as Cas love someone like _him?_

“Thank you, for telling me,” Sam says at last, shattering the delicate silence between them. His gentle touch on Dean’s arm comes as a shock, but Dean represses the urge to recoil or curl in on himself. Cas would want this for him, he finds himself thinking. He would want him to open up, to be able to move on, to let people in. 

“I can’t imagine how hard it was, keeping that to yourself for two years,” Sam continues, and Dean can’t help but scoff at his words. It’s not a bitter, angry thing, but more so an attempt to lighten the mood. 

“You sound like a shrink right now,” he mutters in response. 

Sam sighs out through his nose. “I’m not trying to -” he starts, stops, then continues, “I just want you to know that I’m grateful that you shared this with me. I don’t want you to keep holding this shit in, okay? We’re past that, now. You don’t have to shoulder this alone.”

And _yeah,_ Dean thinks. They _should_ be past that by now. 

He reaches out, his own hand coming to cover where Sam’s lays on his arm. “Thanks, Sammy,” he grumbles, “Sorry it took so long.”

And that’s… that’s the end of it, really. Sam doesn’t ask Dean to elaborate, doesn’t ask him if he said the words back to Cas, doesn’t even ask how it made him feel or if he felt the same way, but it goes unsaid that it doesn’t _matter._ And not in the sense that Sam doesn’t want to hear it or doesn’t want to see it for what it is. Instead, it feels more like… acceptance, if Dean was looking for a word to describe it. 

Dean isn’t dense. Castiel was in their lives for the better part of twelve years, and Sam was there for all of it - heaven and hell and purgatory and temporary deaths notwithstanding - so it only makes sense that he doesn’t ask any questions. Dean likes to think that he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, but despite his best efforts to smother his own emotions, he knows that he can’t help but care deeply and _openly_ about the people he loves. That includes Cas. 

So it goes without saying, but Sam already knows the answer to that unspoken question, Dean is sure of it. 

It doesn’t necessarily make the heartache and guilt hurt any less. Dean still spends his free time pulling new books off the shelf and trying to a find a missing piece to an old puzzle that he’ll never finish, and he still finds himself talking to Cas in the quiet of the Impala on long drives by himself or praying to him at night when the heartache becomes too much to bear, but -

But sometimes, Sam is right there alongside him, too, with a suggestion or a new idea or a listening ear. And it doesn’t make it hurt less, but it makes things easier. It helps to lessen the load, to shoulder some of the weight. It’s just one small step to the right, but sometimes, that’s all it takes. 

And that’s how things go for the next few months. Sam never pushes the subject or forces Dean to talk about it, and in return, Dean gives his brother an inch or two here and there in an attempt to open up a little bit and let someone in. Although Sam doesn’t say it, he can practically hear him telling him that it’s not good to keep everything bottled up, so he tries not to.

Sometimes, it’s something small, like forcing himself to reminisce on some of their happier memories with Cas when the subject unexpectedly comes up over dinner one night. Other times, after a particularly rough day, Dean rasps, _“I miss him, man,”_ in a tight voice, thick with emotion, before Sam wraps him up in a hug and replies,“I know. Me too.”

But over the next few months, Dean makes the conscious decision to try to heal. He wouldn't say that he’s _moving on,_ because he’s still living in the bunker and still using the majority of his free time to try to find a way to bring Cas back, but it’s progress. Baby steps, but progress, nonetheless. 

All of that shatters around him, though, one fateful Friday night, only a few months removed from his admission to Sam. 

_(He told me that he loved me, you know.)_

* * *

It isn’t necessarily _late_ by any means, but when the sun begins setting at 4:30 during the winter, even 7:00 feels late. Or maybe that’s just Dean getting old. Jury’s still out. 

But regardless, it’s late - at least, late enough that the shop is already closed, Dean’s last coworker clocked out just a little bit over an hour ago, but as he does at least once every few weeks, Dean finds himself staying late at the garage for a… personal project. It isn’t unusual for employees to use the garage to work on their own vehicles every so often, and Dean is no exception - after all, maintaining Baby is hard work nowadays. So it isn’t surprising to find Dean staying late to work on the Impala on a random Friday night, when most men would be eager to get home to their families, or to spend a night out on the town, or to even just kick their feet up and enjoy a relaxing night at home. 

For Dean, however, this _is_ relaxing. It brings a sense of normalcy to his strange, chaotic, fucked-up life. Zeppelin is playing in the shop’s speakers, he’s got grease on his hands, and most importantly, he has a quiet moment to himself to worry about nothing but fixing up his car - something that he can control. 

“It’s the little things,” Sam always says, in reference to a nice, home cooked meal, or the company of a friend when they swing by the bunker for a few days, or coffee waiting for him in the morning because Eileen is _just that thoughtful._ And it’s stupid and cheesy and Dean always scoffs at him when he says it, but -

Well, he’s right. It’s the little things. The things that Dean _can_ control. Not the end of the world or how many things still go bump in the night, or -

 _Or,_ the fact that two years later, he’s still trying desperately to find a way to break Cas out of The Empty. 

No, he knows the Impala like the back of his hand. He can control that. So late nights at the garage, after everyone has gone home, his music blasting through the speakers, _this does it for Dean._ It centers him. Gives him something solid to hold onto. He thinks that this has the same effect on him that meditation has on most people, so he’ll take it. 

But, about thirty minutes into working on Baby, as he’s lying on his back underneath her, something changes. 

The lights flicker.

Dean pauses, brow furrowed, wrench lifted slightly above his head, and he _waits._

It’s funny, really. His last hunt was nearly three weeks ago, and the one before that almost two months ago, yet some instincts are ingrained for life. The lights flicker, and Dean pauses, holding his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Then, everything happens all at once. The lights flicker once more before the room plunges into complete darkness. The music crescendos, then cuts out entirely. It all happens for just a couple of heart-stopping seconds, but that’s all it takes before Dean is moving, quietly and quickly, his flight or fight instincts, his hunter brain, kicking into gear. By the time he’s crouching next to the wheel well of the Impala, the lights have turned back on, and the radio, which was once connected to Dean’s phone, is just playing static. 

Loud, deafening, static. 

Assessing the situation, Dean takes inventory of what he knows. He hasn’t encountered a demon since Chuck’s demise and Jack took over, but that’s not to say that they’re not still around. Maybe they’re hiding. Angels, too. Jack had said that he was going to be hands off - and he has made good on that promise thus far - but maybe he meant it in the sense that he wasn’t going to be keeping tabs on all of God’s _children,_ too. 

As he crouches next to the vehicle, Dean curses himself for not paying more attention during Sam’s countless calls and even video conferences with hunters out on the field. He told himself that it wasn’t important - that Sam had it under control and he didn’t need to worry about the world ending or hunting down every single monster out there, that he could just rest for once - but right now, as he waits for the other shoe to drop, Dean finds himself wishing that maybe, he’d been a little more present. At the very least, maybe he’d know what to expect, here. Maybe he’d be prepared.

But right now, the trunk is locked, the keys are in the ignition, and he needs to think, and think _fast._

So Dean reaches out and grabs a tire iron from off of the concrete floor, just as the static becomes nearly painful to his ears, then cuts out entirely. 

He holds his breath, holds the tire iron close to his chest, and for a fleeting moment, it’s completely _silent_ in the garage. The calm before the storm.

Then, something clatters in the next bay over - the sound of metal on concrete shattering the silence - and Dean takes it as his chance to _move._

Quickly and quietly, Dean snakes around the back of the Impala, staying low to the ground as he moves. Nearly two years of working there, he knows the garage like the back of his hand and knows what it sounds like when someone drops a tool the next bay over. He could make the trek with his eyes closed, so he’s there in an instant, standing with his weapon raised and body poised for a fight, and -

And when Dean finally lunges forward, there’s nothing. No monster or demon or angel waiting for him, just the light above the bay swinging back and forth, buzzing with electrical current. 

Dean tilts his head to the side, gazing up at the light with narrowed eyes, and he can’t help but wonder if maybe, he’s just going crazy. Maybe, weeks and months and years of complacency will do this to a guy. Especially a guy like Dean, who spent his whole life on the road, fighting against the forces of evil. Maybe, it was just a power surge, and he’s reading too much into it. But…

 _But,_ just as Dean starts to convince himself that maybe, it _is_ getting late and he’s had a long day and he should just go home, he catches movement in the corner of his eye. A shadow in the lobby, just barely visible behind the frosted glass, but enough to catch his attention. It’s the figure of a man, moving swiftly through the room, and Dean doesn’t _think,_ he just _acts._

He might be a few weeks or months or even years out of the game, but his body is on autopilot as he races through the garage, pulling open the unlocked door to the lobby with little grace and plenty of rage. Dean swings first and asks questions later, but when he turns again, he’s met once more with -

_Nothing._

Now, in the dimly lit lobby, Dean has to squint to see, and despite everything in his body screaming out at him _not to_ , he yells:

“Alright asshole, I know you’re there.” 

He glances around for a moment, trying to figure out where the figure could have gone, then sets his sights on the front desk. They could easily be crouched behind it, biding their time. “Come on out, don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

As he approaches the front desk, tire iron raised like a weapon, Dean takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm. The air around him feels charged, electric, and he’s not sure if it’s the adrenaline coursing through his system or whatever danger is lurking around the corner or something else entirely, but it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, makes his heart race. 

Dean rounds the corner, and when he finds nothing once more, it fills his chest with dread. He feels as if he just walked right into a trap. He’s all alone here, with nothing but a fucking tire iron as a weapon and -

Dean hears movement behind him and whirls on instinct before he can even consider his options. Shoot first, ask questions later. It has always worked for him before, and Dean prays that it doesn’t let him down now. 

So as he turns, he swings hard and fast, and -

And he’s met with a solid force, a hand reaching out to easily catch the tire iron, and the weight of blue eyes bearing right into his soul.

Dean recognizes that gaze in a heartbeat. 

Even shrouded in shadow, even in such a confined space with adrenaline pumping through his veins, there’s no mistaking those eyes, nor the weight of that gaze - a gaze that he got to know well, that he grew fond of and even… even fell in love with over the course of twelve long years. 

Dean balks at first, eyes wide, mouth agape, but he doesn’t let go of the tire iron, and neither does the man in front of him, so he doesn’t get far, just backing up enough until his boots hit the wall behind him. As Dean stares into those familiar eyes, he’s rendered speechless. He’s frozen on the spot. He wants to say - wants to _do_ \- a million things, but all he can do is stare, his throat closing up, his body freezing on the spot as…

As he looks up at none other than Castiel standing before him.

For a moment, time seems to stand still. Dean remains frozen stock still in place, staring into the eyes of the one person that he has missed more than anything, who he has prayed to nearly every night for two full years, who he -

Who he _loves_ , and he can’t _do_ or _say_ anything.

Thankfully, Cas (or at least, what _appears_ to be Cas) takes pity on him. After what feels like an eternity, his face goes soft and he loosens his grip on the tire iron that Dean just swung in his direction. He even takes a half step backward, giving Dean his space, before he clears his throat and speaks, in that voice that Dean has been dying to fucking hear, just one more time for two whole years: 

_“Hello, Dean.”_

There’s so much that Dean wants to say. So much that he wants to do. So much that he _should_ do, just to make sure that this isn’t some fucked up hallucination or a trickster or shapeshifter or demon or _whatever,_ but Dean doesn’t. do. anything. 

Instead, he just _stands there,_ gaping at the man before him, uttering out intelligibly, “I - It’s - _Cas,_ you -”

Castiel ducks his head, a flash of (shame? embarrassment? anguish?) _something_ crossing his face for a split second before he looks back up at Dean and offers a small, tentative smile. “It’s really me,” he confirms, and just as quick as it’s there, it’s gone. “If you need to… put me through any tests, I understand. I didn’t mean for you to see me, Dean I -”

If Cas keeps speaking, Dean doesn’t hear him. Instead, he’s too focused on the emotional journey that Castiel is putting him through right now. Obviously, at the forefront, he feels relief, joy and elation, but Dean knows better than to accept things at face value. So if he takes a step backwards at all, it’s because he’s wary, worried that this is some kind of trick or a trap.

But _then,_ Castiel starts going on about how _he didn’t mean for Dean to see him,_ and suddenly, Dean feels _angry,_ because _how fucking dare he show up and not want to see him?_ But at the same time, he can’t help but feel overjoyed, because only Cas - _his_ Cas - would be such a dense asshole. 

So Dean steels himself, straightening his back and schooling his face as he asks, as casually as he can, “So _what,_ you just wanted to spy on me and then leave?” It isn’t really how he imagined their first meeting after _everything_ going, but to be honest, he never really let himself have enough hope to imagine this, either. “How long have you been here?”

Cas raises his eyebrows, a look of surprise crossing his features before he schools his face once more. “Well - do you mean _here,_ as in -” he glances above Dean’s head at the hand-painted sign hanging behind the front desk, _“Ed’s Garage?_ Or -”

“So you mean you’ve been out for a while,” Dean says, not a question. Cas didn’t necessarily answer him, but he didn’t need to. He said enough, and again, Dean isn’t sure if he should be angry or relieved. 

“Well, yes,” Cas starts, his head tilting to the side just slightly, as it does when he thinks, “And no. It’s… _complicated._ When Jack brought everyone back -”

 _“That long?”_ Dean nearly yells, his voice raising and echoing off of the walls of the vacant room. He feels betrayed, embarrassed, ashamed. Here he was, struggling to get his shit together, trying everything within his power to get Cas back for the past _two years,_ and it turns out he’s been here the whole time. This was supposed to be a _happy_ reunion. Maybe, if Dean got his way, even a loving one. But _this…_ this isn’t what he expected. “Are you fucking kidding me, man? You’ve been back _that long,_ and you didn’t - you -”

“I’ve been _busy,_ Dean,” Cas interrupts, his mouth pulling into a frown, “I haven’t been _here,_ on Earth. I’ve been helping Jack rebuild Heaven.”

 _Oh._

Dean opens his mouth to say something, _anything,_ but he doesn’t even know where to begin, what to ask. Mercifully, Castiel continues speaking instead. _“Of course_ I wanted to come back to see you and Sam, but I’ve had work to do,” he insists, “It was the least I could do, after what Jack did for me - for _everyone…”_

Cas offers Dean a tight, hesitant smile before adding, “I’m here _now._ Granted, this wasn’t the way I wanted to -”

“You son of a bitch,” Dean grumbles, effectively silencing Castiel’s train of thought. Then, before he has the chance to say anything else, to apologize any further or insist that _this wasn’t the way he wanted to reunite with him,_ or whatever the hell he was about to say, Dean is dropping the tire iron to the floor with a loud _clang,_ then taking two steps forward to pull Cas in for a tight, bone-crushing hug.

Cas doesn’t return the gesture at first, but when he eventually does, after just a few seconds of his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, it’s to wrap his arms around Dean’s frame, burying his face into his shoulder. 

And for a moment, time seems to just stand still. For a moment, everything - all of the pain and heartache and regret and guilt - over the past two years seems worth it. If it means he can see Cas again, can talk to him and _hold him_ again, then it was all worth it. 

But eventually, they have to part, and when they do, Castiel offers him a gentle, knowing smile and soft words. “It’s good to see you again, Dean,” he says, and judging by the warm tone of his voice, he means it. After all, Cas always means what he says. 

“Yeah, you too,” Dean manages to mutter, admittedly feeling a bit choked up at the unexpected reunion. Before he has the chance to get too emotional or sappy, he takes one look around the shop - the dim lights and dirty floors and cluttered bays - and decides that this reunion would be much better suited at home. “Come on,” he says, motioning for the bay that the Impala is currently parked in, “Sammy’s going to lose his shit when he sees you. Let’s go home.”

And Dean doesn’t miss the way that Cas pauses, hesitating for just a split second before a warm smile spreads across his face and he murmurs out, _“Home.”_

It isn’t until Cas is sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala as they’re cruising down the highway at sixty miles per hour just fifteen minutes later that the reality of the situation seems to settle around them. _Cas is back._ Despite himself, Dean can’t help but sneak glances to his right at stop signs and turns and as they pass underneath the occasional street light, as if Cas might disappear if he doesn’t keep an eye on him, as if it’s just a trick of the light or his imagination running away with him or even worse, a terrible prank played by some sort of monster that has it out for him. But with every glance, Castiel is still there, and Dean becomes more and more certain that this is _real._

 _This is real._ By some miracle, Cas is sitting in the passenger seat, in one piece and very much alive, two years removed from that fateful night when he was so cruelly taken away before his time, before he even really truly got to live, before -

Before Dean had a chance to say those three little words back. 

The silence weighs heavy on Dean as he drives them back to the bunker. It’s a short trek, and takes even less time at night when he knows which back roads he can safely speed down, but it doesn’t make the quiet any less palpable, the unsaid words hanging between them. 

Part of Dean just wants to get it over with. Rip it off like a bandaid. Say those words back and hope that he didn’t completely misinterpret what Cas said to him _two fucking years ago_ and that he still feels the same way now. But he knows that if he does it now, they’ll never make it home. He’ll crash the car or have to pull over when everything becomes _too much_ , and Sam would never let him live it down.

So Dean does what he does best. He pushes it to the side, deciding that their important conversation can wait until later and instead, decides to fill the silence with chatter. 

He glances at Castiel once more, and it just so happens that when he turns to the right, he’s met with a pair of heavy blue eyes already looking right back at him. Dean freezes, swallows, and turns his gaze back to the road in front of him. 

“So,” he says, clearing his throat, “I’d ask how you knew where to find me, but -”

“Jack told me,” Cas supplies before he can even finish getting the words out, “He has been… keeping tabs on you and Sam.”

Dean can’t help the smile that finds its way onto his face at that, at the thought that Jack has been there with them in a sense, even if from afar. “So much for not being hands on.”

“He hasn’t been hands on, but you can’t blame him for wanting to keep an eye on you,” Cas counters, his voice taking on a warm, proud tone. “What is it that people say? God works in mysterious ways?” 

Dean snorts out a laugh. He has missed _everything_ about Castiel in the past two years, but his sense of humor and comedic timing (purposeful or not) is high up on that list. 

Unlike last time, Dean decides not to let those thoughts go unspoken. “I’ve missed you, man,” he admits softly. 

And even though he’s too afraid to take his eyes off the road after he speaks, he can hear the smile in Cas’ voice when he responds, “And I you, Dean.”

* * *

To say that the sight of Dean walking into the bunker with Castiel by his side that night takes Sam by surprise would be an understatement. They make their grand appearance without much flourish - Dean just steps inside like he would any normal night, shucking off his jacket and tossing his keys onto the closest surface - and at first, Sam doesn’t even look up to greet him. He’s sitting there at the table, nose buried in a book, Eileen at his side, and he greets Dean with a, _“Hey, dinner’s in the fridge,”_ without so much as looking in his direction. After two years, they’ve become accustomed to each other’s routines. It comes as no surprise that Sam knows the sound of Dean arriving late at night, and it always does something strange to Dean’s chest to know that they’ve become so _comfortable_ that Sam doesn’t even feel worried when someone steps into the bunker late at night.

 _Life is good._ And unbeknownst to Sam, it’s about to get a hell of a lot better. 

In the end, it’s Eileen who spies Cas first. Cas, who steps quietly in the front door behind Dean, shutting it behind himself with a soft _click_ . Cas, who doesn’t immediately say anything to the younger Winchester brother, because _what do you say to someone who has thought you were dead for two whole years when you step through their front door like it’s nothing?_ Though, Dean supposes, he did alright earlier. Maybe not very eloquent, but it got the point across. 

So it’s Eileen who looks up to greet Dean with a smile on her face when he walks in the door, and her smile quickly morphs into an open look of utter shock when she lays eyes on the figure standing next to him. If they didn’t hunt monsters for a living, Dean would say that she looks like she’s seen a ghost, but then again, he supposes that’s what _he_ looked like when he first saw Cas standing in front of him in the dim light of the garage, as well. 

_“Cas?”_ Eileen manages after a long moment of stunned silence, smacking Sam’s arm to get his attention as she speaks. She can’t take her eyes off of him, and honestly, Dean can’t blame her.

Sam, however, is slower on the uptake, frowning at Eileen before glancing up in Dean’s direction and abruptly dropping his open book on the table. 

“Dean?”

“Hello Sam, Eileen,” Cas greets to Dean’s right, and _fuck,_ it’s relieving to know that this wasn’t one big hallucination or breakdown. He’s really here. It’s really him. “It’s good to see you both.”

* * *

“So you don’t even remember _how_ you got out?” Sam asks about an hour later, long after they’ve put Cas through the usual tests (despite Dean’s insistence that _they don’t need to)_ . The four of them - Sam, Dean, Eileen and Cas - are all sitting around the table, each nursing a beer, as Castiel attempts to explain _what he’s been up to_ the past two years. The beginning is muddy, to say the least, but Dean still finds himself hanging on every word, unable to stop himself from wondering how Cas _felt_ through everything, as he tells the story from a strictly objective narrative. 

“Well, I remember that it was Jack, who pulled me out,” Cas explains, his brows furrowing as he talks, likely thinking back to that day well over two years ago, when his son - _when God_ \- pulled him out of The Empty. “It’s difficult to keep time in any… plane,” he continues, “Heaven, Hell, Purgatory… The Empty is no exception. I was barely conscious when he came for me, it took… a while, before I was myself again.”

Cas looks away at that, his jaw clenching for just the briefest seconds before schools his face once more, as if deciding whether or not to continue speaking before adding, “And it came at a great cost.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asks, worry creasing his face. Dean’s gaze dances from his brother to Castiel, who opens, then closes his mouth, as if trying to find the right words to say, and with a sudden pang of dread, Dean knows _exactly_ what he means. The realization hits him hard, and already, he has countless questions for Cas - questions that he doesn’t feel comfortable coming to light in front of Sam and Eileen. 

“You don’t have your mojo anymore,” Dean infers quietly, earning a wide-eyed look of surprise from his brother, a sorrowful look of understanding from Eileen, and a steady, unflinching gaze from Castiel. He and Dean lock eyes for just the briefest of moments, and before he says _anything,_ Dean already understands that this was Cas’ _choice._ He can see it written all over his face. 

When all eyes in the room finally turn back to him, Cas begins to explain, “Jack was able to bring me back from The Empty, but not without losing much of my grace. After he rescued me, I didn’t have the power to travel between Heaven and Earth as I once did.” He turns to look at Dean, and _only_ Dean then, before adding, “He needed my help in Heaven. It was the least I could do, after everything he did for me.”

“But you’re here now,” Sam says after a beat of silence, trying, like everyone else, to wrap his head around exactly what Cas’ words mean. “So, what changed?”

“My work there was done,” Cas explains, as if it’s nothing, as if he didn’t just make the most difficult decision that any _being_ could ever make. Sacrificing eternal life in Heaven with his brothers and sisters, with Jack, with countless people that he has lost for…

For what feels like the millionth time that night, the realization hits Dean like a truck. Casiel chose to take a one way ticket back to Earth. 

He continues, “I was given the choice of remaining in Heaven, or -”

 _“Becoming human,”_ Dean mutters, effectively cutting him off. He doesn’t look at Cas when he speaks, instead training his gaze down at the table, at the space where their names are carved into the wood. Still, _mojo_ or not, Dean can feel the heavy weight of Cas’ gaze on him. It makes his chest feel tight, makes it hard to breathe, to move, to think. 

Castiel chose humanity again and again, over the will of God, over the commands of the angels in his garrison. He chose humanity - he chose _Dean_ and Sam and Jack and every human he ever loved - every time, over and over, and now…

“Well, not _entirely,”_ Cas says at last, “But as close to it as I can get, yes.”

Sam is quiet for a long moment as the reality of Castiel’s words settle around them, and in the end, it’s Eileen who finally breaks the silence, reaching across the table to grab Cas’ hand. “I’m glad you’re back, Cas.”

Cas smiles warmly at her in return, signing _“thank you”_ with his free hand. “I am, too,” he replies out loud, and as he speaks, his gaze drifts over to where Dean sits on the opposite end of the table. Dean, who averts his eyes like the coward he is, the coward who couldn’t even say three little words back when it mattered the most, who wants nothing more than to utter them now, but they keep getting stuck in his throat. 

Instead, Dean finds himself asking, “So what does that mean for you?” Because of course, he’s always thinking of the next steps, what might be lurking around the corner, what the future has in store for them. In this case, he can’t help but wonder if his time with Cas is limited, if this is going to be short lived. 

“As far as I can tell, I’m here to stay,” Cas answers, “If you’ll have me.”

_If you’ll have me._

Dean nearly laughs at the words. In what universe _wouldn’t_ he want Cas here? In what world wouldn’t he want to have him, in more ways than just a simple house guest. At the base level, Cas _sacrificed himself_ for them. He gave his life to give them a chance to keep fighting. Why the hell wouldn’t they want him here? He’s family. He’s their brother, as far as Sam is concerned. 

Obviously, Dean has his own selfish reasons for wanting Cas to stay, but they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it. 

“Of course,” Sam replies before Dean has the chance to say anything stupid, sarcastic or embarrassing. “This is your home, too, Cas.”

Cas offers Sam a warm smile in response. “Thank you, Sam. I - well, I missed all of you.”

“We missed you too, man,” Sam replies, reaching forward to clasp Cas on his shoulder.

Less than an hour later, after Sam tells Cas to _make himself at home_ before shooting Dean a pointed look and following Eileen off to bed, Dean finds himself alone with the (former) angel once more, attempting to make small talk as they each finish off another beer. It’s not that Dean _doesn’t_ want to discuss what happened right before Cas was taken by The Empty, but he doesn’t know how to broach the subject. That, and, well… he can’t even remember the last time he had to _confess his feelings_ for someone. Things just came so much easier when he was picking up a beautiful woman at a bar or making the eyes at the server or even flirting with the hot bartender who wasn’t really his type, but he had kissable lips and baby blues and reminded him just enough of a certain someone who he couldn’t seem to get off his mind. 

Dean doesn’t do _this._ He doesn’t do intimate, personal discussions. He doesn’t do love confessions or feelings. No, all of those things always seem to come too little too late, lying awake in bed at night, wishing that he could have just said those three little words back, beating himself up for never letting anyone in, never telling anyone just how much they mean to him before they’re gone. 

But Dean would _like_ to do that. He _wants_ to be that person. And over the past two years, it hasn’t been _easy,_ by any means, but it hasn’t been quite the uphill battle that it once was. Hell, not too long ago, he even stood in this very room and told Sam what happened that fateful day when Cas was taken from them. That took a lot.

And if he could do that, then he can do this, right?

Shortly after Dean drains the last of his beer, he crosses the room to reach for a half-full bottle of whiskey, deciding that if he’s really going to do this, then maybe he should have something strong on standby, just in case things go awry. He turns, lifting it up towards Cas in a silent question, and the other man simply shrugs and nods. After he has poured a couple of fingers of the amber liquor into two glasses, handing one over to Cas, he leans up against the counter in what he hopes is a casual motion. 

“So, you’re a bonafide human now,” he remarks, deciding that they’ll work their way up to the tough part of this conversation eventually. “How does it feel?”

“I’m no more human than you are, Dean,” Cas tells him after a moment of consideration, “Some of my grace still lingers inside me, just as there are still remnants of it inside of you, from when we first met.”

Dean, having chosen an admittedly terrible time to take a sip of his drink, nearly chokes at Castiel’s words and takes a moment before muttering, _“When we first met.”_

He remembers that day like it was yesterday, although he’s sure that Cas recalls it differently. Dean’s part in the story began in a rural barn, with exploding lightbulbs and ominous warnings and _“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raise you from perdition”_ while Castiel’s story began in the seedy depths of Hell, rescuing a man who thought that he didn’t deserve to be saved and seeing every piece of his mind and soul laid bare before reconstructing him piece by broken piece. Castiel’s part in this story has always been much more poetic. Compared to him, Dean sometimes feels like he’s simply stumbling through life, lucky to even _know_ someone as important as Cas. 

But he’s getting ahead of himself. 

Dean shakes those thoughts from his head when Cas speaks again, turning his full attention to him instead of the turmoil raging inside of his own mind. 

“But to answer your question, it feels _good,_ being a _bonafide human,”_ Cas says, a small smile pulling at his lips, and _god,_ it’s a good look on him, leaning up against the table, a drink in his hand and a smile on his face. Dean nods, waiting for him to go on. 

“More often than not, I felt as if I was being torn in two,” he explains, the smile dissipating as his words become a little more serious. A little more personal. “Always forced to choose between who I was fundamentally, and who I was becoming. As you know, my love for humanity was always ‘my biggest flaw,’ as many of my… peers put it.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue that _loving humanity isn’t a flaw,_ but Cas holds up a hand and offers him an understanding smile that says, _I know._

“So when I was presented with the option to _write my own story_ \- to stay in Heaven, or sacrifice my power and my grace to return here, to return to -” Cas stops, clearly considering his words, then starts again, “It was an easy decision to make.”

For a moment, Dean doesn’t know what to say. Castiel’s words now feel almost reminiscent of a conversation that they had right before the end, right before he uttered those three little words, and Dean isn’t sure if he’s ready to cross that bridge just yet, still working up the guts to find the right words himself, so he chooses to focus on one particular aspect of what was just said. 

The words slip out before Dean even has a chance to think about them. 

“So, while you were up there, could you… well, _you know…”_

Apparently, Cas _doesn’t_ know, because he simply cocks his head just slightly to the side, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. 

Dean clears his throat, then tries again. “Well, I mean… Sam and I have been working pretty hard to find a way to get you back, so if one of us were to pray -”

“I couldn’t hear it,” Cas answers mercifully before Dean can finish his question, and he’s not sure if the answer makes him feel any better or not. 

So Cas _couldn’t_ hear him these past two years. On one hand, he wants to feel relieved, because how embarrassing would it be to be standing here, knowing that Cas heard every single late night plea, every tearful apology, every drunken confession and desperate prayer? But at the same time, he almost finds himself wishing that Cas could have heard him. At least that way, it would make this conversation that they’re teetering on the edge of a little bit easier. At least Cas would _know._

“Jack kept me… _updated,”_ Cas continues, shaking Dean from his thoughts. A fond smile creases his face when he mentions Jack’s name. “He may have promised to stay hands-off, but he couldn’t help but keep tabs on the two of you.” 

Dean can’t help the way he smiles at Cas’ mention of Jack, as well. Although the hurt from losing Cas ran deep over the past two years, the wound from losing Jack in a sense is still somewhat fresh as well. He made good on his word to remain hands-off, and that meant no popping by the bunker, no unexpected visits, _nothing._ It was hard, losing both of them at once. So to know that Jack has been watching them, even from afar, _and_ keeping Cas up to date -

It’s enough to nearly bring a tear to Dean’s eye. At the very least, he knows that his eyes are a little glossy, that the emotion is probably written all over his face. _He’s had a long day, cut him some slack._

But Cas doesn’t miss the way Dean’s face twists up a little bit at the thought of Jack, at the realization that he has been praying to deaf ears for two years straight. It’s a lot of information to take in all at once, so sue him for having it written all over his face. 

“I wish I could have come sooner, Dean,” he says, breaking the silence once more when Dean doesn’t immediately say anything in response, “I really do, but -”

“You had unfinished business, I get it,” Dean assures. And really, he does. He knows that Castiel’s sense of loyalty and gratitude is no joke. If Jack needed help in Heaven after he pulled him from The Empty, it’s no surprise that Cas jumped right on it. That’s just who he is. It’s what Dean _loves_ about him. 

Although, he wouldn’t be lying if he said that he would have appreciated a sign. He would have done _anything_ to know that Cas was alive, that he was okay. Even if it meant knowing that he couldn’t have him, that he couldn’t see him for two years, or even longer. Anything would have been better than living with the guilt, than wondering what could have been, than wishing that he could had said _something_ before Cas was taken away. 

Apparently, the emotional journey that his face goes through says this all, though, because then, Cas is taking a step forward, a small, gentle smile falling on his face. 

“For what it’s worth, you seem to be doing pretty well for yourselves,” he remarks, “I’m proud of you, Dean. Of both of you.”

Dean chokes out a laugh at that, shaking his head. On one hand, he wants to lay it all out, to tell Cas that he’s been a fucking _mess_ without him, but he doesn’t want to put that guilt on him. He gets it, he really does. So instead, he decides to veer in the opposite direction: humor. 

“I mean, I’ve got a nine to five and Sammy has basically turned this place into hunter headquarters while juggling online classes, but we’re still so painfully co-dependent and emotionally stunted that we can’t bring ourselves to move out of the bunker or stop hunting entirely,” he remarks, and _shit,_ that came off a little more self-deprecating than he intended. “But _yeah,_ you could say we’re doing well.”

“You’ve always been too hard on yourself,” Cas says gently, then considers his next words for a moment before continuing, “When I let myself imagine what it might be like when things finally came to an end, I had hope that you’d be able to carry on, to _move on,_ with or without me. You’ve done well for yourself. You’re making the most of this life and this newfound freedom.” 

Dean takes a drink of his whiskey while he plans his next words, then steels himself before muttering, “Yeah, well I would have rather had you here.”

Cas’ small smile morphs into a frown at that. “Dean -” he starts to argue, but Dean cuts him off before he can get the words out. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, Dean shakes his head, deciding that there’s no better time than _now._ What the hell else does he have to lose? 

“No, you know what? You got to say a lot to me, before you left,” Dean says, “It’s my turn, now.” 

To his surprise, Cas doesn’t protest. He doesn’t tell Dean that he doesn’t need to say anything, doesn’t repeat the same words from before. Instead, he just swallows and nods.

And Dean… has _no_ idea what to say. He didn’t plan out a big speech, didn’t rehearse the words in his head. Hell, he didn’t even know if he’d be able to muster up the courage to breach the topic tonight, and now here he is, standing in front of Castiel, about to lay it all on the line and - 

And it’s strange, really. Part of him is petrified. He feels more frightened of this, of bearing it all and letting someone _in_ than he does of most monsters, but… but at the same time, it’s a calming, freeing feeling, knowing what he’s about to tell Cas, even if he doesn’t quite know the right words to say. And in this moment, he understands why just _saying it_ was enough to summon The Empty. 

Fuck, if only Cas had known that the feeling was mutual. 

“I know you think I’m too hard on myself,” he sets his drink down as he begins speaking, and once he starts talking, the words just flow out of him, “And sure, what Sam and I have got going here - it’s good. But I’d be lying if I said that the past two years were a walk in the park without you, Cas.”

Castiel’s face falls at those words, but Dean doesn’t falter. He continues, “I know that you did what you had to do, back then. Hell, I probably would have done the same exact thing, if I were in your shoes. But these past two years…” Dean shakes his head, scrubbing a hand through his hair, “They’ve been _shit,_ man. For _two years,_ I’ve been thinking about what you said to me, right before the end, trying to live up to the way that you see me, and its fucking _hard.”_

“You were everything that was good about this world, Cas,” Dean admits, and _god,_ it’s a freeing feeling and he hasn’t even uttered the words that he’s been dying to yet. “You gave me hope, gave me something to believe in. So any of that _goodness_ that you saw in me, it was all thanks to you. Don’t give me all of the credit.”

“Dean -” Cas starts to say, likely to argue what he just said, but Dean holds up a hand, halting him. 

“I’m not done,” he says, then when the other man doesn’t say anything else, he continues, “I - _fuck,_ Cas. _Two years._ For two years, I’ve been trying to figure out what I’d say to you when I saw you again. _If_ I saw you again. And I still don’t know -”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Cas insists, cutting him off, “You don’t owe me anything. As I said -”

“Yeah, it’s in the being, not the having, _right?”_ Dean recites verbatim, shaking his head again. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe, you could’ve _had_ what you wanted, too?” 

Castiel’s eyes go wide at that, and it’s written plain as day all over his face that _no, he didn’t stop to consider that._ Because in what world could Dean Winchester love someone like Castiel back so fully and deeply as Castiel loved him? 

Cas opens his mouth to speak, but Dean cuts him off before he can say a word. 

“You said I changed you, but did you ever think that you changed me, too? Your kindness, your open heart, your drive to do the right thing and that _reckless,_ frankly _stupid_ faith in me and Sam… You changed me too, Cas,” Dean says with a breathy laugh, “And to think that you couldn’t _have me…_ ”

“I -”

Dean doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he can taste salt on his own lips, until his vision goes a little blurry when he blinks, but still, he keeps talking. He opened the floodgates, he might as well get it all out there. 

“Of course you can have me,” he mutters at last, “You’ve _always_ had me, Cas. Have a little more faith in me than that.” 

And at that, Cas finally _moves._ He closes the space between them so quickly that Dean doesn’t even have the chance to brace himself before Cas is wrapping him in a tight, long awaited embrace. And this isn’t like any of the other hugs they’ve shared over the years - excited to see each other after too much time apart, relieved that the other made it out alive, in utter shock or disbelief that the other is even standing in front of them - no, this one is different. This time, Cas grips Dean like a lifeline, holding him in such a way that feels like he may never let go. This time, Cas doesn’t even hesitate before burying his face in the junction between Dean’s shoulder and neck. He’s even still holding onto his whiskey glass, and Dean is sure that some of the liquor has sloshed out and onto his back, but he doesn’t give a shit. He doesn’t care, because _he has Cas._

Dean deflates the second that Cas wraps his arms around him, returning the hug with gusto, holding on as tightly as possible, and he can’t help but let his own head fall to Cas’ shoulder as well, tears soaking into that tan trench coat that he’s been looking for in every single crowd over the past two years. 

As they embrace, Dean reaches up to cradle the back of Cas’ head, to pull him close like he has always dream of, like he’s been dying to do for two long years. He revels in the feeling of Cas’ hair against his fingers, of the sharp intake of breath that the touch earns. He revels in the fact that _this is real._ This isn’t some dream or fucked up trick or fantasy. It’s real. They earned this.

Eventually, they part, and when Dean looks at Castiel - properly looks at him - he sees himself reflected in his eyes. Cas looks tired and beaten down and scared and exhausted, but he also looks… well, he looks _free._ Despite the tears, Cas looks elated. He looks happy. 

Wordlessly, Dean moves until he’s cupping Cas’ face in his hands, and as he looks at the other man - _man,_ because Cas gave up everything he has ever known to be here, to be with _him_ \- Dean thinks that for the first time in his entire life, he truly understands what it means to love. To _be_ loved. 

Castiel _loves him._ He said it once before, and he’s saying it now with the look in his eyes and the watery smile on his face. Against all odds, and against better judgement, Cas loves him, flaws and all. In fact, as Dean recalls, Cas doesn’t love him in spite of his flaws, he loves him _because_ of his flaws. Castiel knows him better than anyone else in the world, his own brother included. He pulled him out of the depths of Hell, stitched every single piece of his soul back together, saw Dean for who he truly was, then _met him,_ and still, he fell in love with him. The realization of it, just knowing that Cas loves him, that he came back to be with him, regardless of whether the feeling was mutual, is nearly enough to bring Dean to his knees. 

This, Dean finds himself thinking, is the kind of love that God _should have_ had for humanity. For them. This… unwavering, unconditional…

 _Oh fuck it._ What’s he doing waxing poetic about it when he could be _acting_ on it?

“You never gave me the chance to say it back, you know,” Dean murmurs, his voice gravely and wet and incredibly _raw_ to his own ears. He uses his thumbs to wipe away some of the wetness on Cas’ face and doesn’t miss the way that he leans into the touch, his eyes falling closed for just a moment. _“I love you too,_ you idiot. _Of course I do.”_

The kiss has been a long time coming. 

As soon as Dean feels Castiel’s lips on his own, he finds himself wondering why they never did this sooner. There were so many signs, so many chances, so many times when the moment would have been right, but he supposes it’s perfectly in character that they just danced around one another for years, afraid to get too close, to cross that line in the sand. 

Now, Dean can’t imagine ever going back. 

He’s not sure how long they’re like that, wrapped up in one another, kissing in the kitchen and holding onto one another like they’ll disappear if they stop, but eventually, Dean finds himself pressing his forehead into Castiel’s shoulder, smiling to himself like a giddy teenager as the other man runs his fingers through his hair. 

“So what now?” Cas asks sometime later, offering Dean this happy, crooked smile that Dean has never, not _once,_ seen grace the other man’s lips before. He catalogues the sight and files it away, offering his own smile in return. 

“Well…” Dean says thoughtfully, pulling Cas a little bit closer. He’s still leaning up against the counter, but now, Cas is sort of bracketing him with his arms planted on either side of him, their knees knocking together. It’s domestic as fuck, and Dean finds it had to believe that, just a few hours ago, he wasn’t even sure if this was going to work out in his favor. 

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve always thought about retiring and getting a cabin somewhere in the mountains. Maybe opening a bar like The Roadhouse,” he hums, “Montana doesn’t sound half bad.”

Cas considers him with raised eyebrows, and Dean presses his hand to the small of his back, pulling him impossibly closer. “Or Colorado,” he adds with a smirk, “Wyoming. Take your pick.”

Cas huffs out a short breath, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh and _god,_ Dean missed this. Of course not _this -_ holding Cas in his arms, just a hair's breadth away from another kiss - he never even knew he could have this, but more so just _talking_ to Cas, saying the right things to push his buttons, to earn a laugh. 

“I’ll go wherever you are, Dean,” Cas says, and _wow,_ that does something to his chest that they’ll have to look more into later. “You know that. I meant more so -”

“Big picture?” Dean infers.

“Yeah,” Cas replies, the one syllable nearly a sigh. 

Their eyes meet once more, and for the millionth time in one night, Dean nearly has to pinch himself because _guys like him don’t get happy endings like this._ Since the beginning - since they were just kids, since that fateful night all those years ago that Dean dragged Sam back into this life - Dean always sort of knew that things weren’t going to pan out well for him. He’d probably die young on some freak hunting accident, or drink himself to death in a shitty motel room in the middle of fucking nowhere, or maybe finally just have enough and do the job himself. Whatever it was, it didn’t end like _this._ When Dean imagined his future, it was always bleak. Even after they defeated Chuck and finally gained their freedom, he didn’t let himself hope that he’d get a happily ever after, or get to ride off into the sunset with the person that he loves. 

But looking at Cas, right here, right now, in the dim light of the bunker, in the middle of the night, Dean thinks that maybe, this is the beginning of his happy ending. And deep down, he knows that he deserves this. 

But Dean doesn’t say all of that. He doesn’t even know if he could get the right words out without sounding completely unhinged or self-deprecating, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because Cas _knows._

So he just offers Cas a shrug and a smile. “We live?”

And in return, Cas dips down, capturing Dean’s lips in a chaste kiss _because they can do that now,_ before humming and replying, “That’s a good start.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thinking about making another little one-shot or an epilogue of Dean and Cas in their little cabin in the mountains, but we'll see!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this.


End file.
